


Still Wouldst Thou Sing

by errantcomment



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mentions of Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/errantcomment/pseuds/errantcomment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin already has his suicide note written out. If MJN ever went bust and he lost his job as captain he would put that note into use, because he would have nothing to live for anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this [prompt](http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/1249.html?thread=1751265#t1751265).
> 
> Originally posted on Livejournal.

Martin stares at the multimeter lying on his tiny desk, the one he had to hold up with his knees to work on without it all collapsing. Underneath he can knows that there are notes with numbers and facts for his exam. But he can't see them. He can only see the ugly black multimeter, sneering (and don't be silly, how can it sneer?) up at him. He can hear his father telling him that he had a good shot, it's not going to work, you have to do something with your life instead of just failing, boy. (Never son anymore.) You could go and work for your brother...

Remembering that final conversation Martin slumps in front of the altar to his failure, here personified by a wobbly desk moulting creased notes and a multimeter. Martin tries to stare it down and soon his vision is wavery and tears spill over, tears for the old bastard finally at his rest, god damn him, (here Martin's fist hits his knee) and for himself, for all the notes that he took and for the six exams (the fist comes down again) that he'd failed. Scrubbing his nose on the back of his hand he finally allows himself to think the thought he's been trying so hard not to: 'What's the point? Who would care anyway?'

And at that moment, he comes to a revelation, like someone spilled ice-water down his spine, and in the dim attic room, in a circle of dull lamplight, Martin picks up a cheap biro and a piece of paper. What he writes is short, and to the point. Once he's put it on paper, once his intent is solid and real and something he can hold, Martin feels absurdly better, knowing he holds the key to his final release. He folds the piece of paper in half, and pins it to the tatty piece of wall above his desk. With something between disgust and reverence, he puts the multimeter on the shelf next to his model Spitfire, and sits down at his desk, already muttering figures to himself again and again and again...

When he gathers his notes with slightly shaking fingers four months later, he looks at the little square of white paper. He opens it and reads it. It's still his release, still a ticket out. He folds it up again, and puts it back on the wall. For safe keeping, you see.


	2. Chapter 2

That morning, before he starts at The Last Airline (no really, he should have seen it coming) he touches his escape ticket (and he has to think of it like that, thinking of it any other way seems, at best, melodramatic) softly, with the tip of one finger. Just checking it's still there. Still a possibility.

When Martin looks back on his life, he doesn't think about The Last Airline too much. Everyone had been friendly enough at first, and it had been good to be even a First Officer after failing so much. But then he had fallen afoul of the HR person, and since they couldn't fire him, they had told a couple of people (quite by accident, obviously) about his track record (and about their disastrous date) and that had been that. It really didn't help, he reflected after a disciplinary meeting (they didn't mean it, after all, perhaps you're just taking it a bit seriously?), that he was so very pathetic. Even he wanted to bully him, on the rare occasion he caught his own eye in the mirror when he shaved- to dunk his head into the foamy water, or flick himself round the ear and tell him to take his head out of his arse.

When he brushed his teeth that night, he caught his own eye for the first time in weeks. He stared at himself, caught by the stranger looking back at him. You can always escape. The wholly unattractive stranger, with his freckled skin and pale ginger hair and colourless eyes, smiled. He unpinned the ticket, and read the blotched biro. Just to- but it didn't really say everything, any more, did it? So much had happened in the year or so since he'd booked it, so to speak. So he sat down, and picked up the very same pen(though he didn't realise, because who honestly keeps track of such things?), and wrote. Slightly different this time. Some of it was addressed to his flatmates (because this year's weren't a bad sort). When he folded it, it felt so much heavier than a sheet of A4 paper should. He pinned it up. Tomorrow, perhaps he would escape tomorrow. He could pick up any necessaries on the way home, and just leave.

"Hello?"

"Is this... Martin Cri-eff?"

"Crieff," Martin corrected.

"I'm Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. From MJN Air? We'd like you to come in for an interview tomorrow." She sounded business-like, in a slightly motherly way. She didn't sound kind, but she didn't sound cruel.

Martin said yes.


	3. Chapter 3

On his first day at MJN Air, he took his ticket in with him. He wasn't intending to use it, but knowing it was there, it's not-weight in his shirt pocket, helped. When he got home, he pinned it to the darkened patch of wall again.

Upon arriving home from St Petersburg, Martin took it down again, with slightly shaking fingers. It didn't say anything useful. It didn't weigh anything. At that moment, it was worthless. He carefully tore it in half, and then half again, like he did with bus tickets. He sat at his desk, looking carefully at the four pieces, watching the meaning escape the blue ink _I couldn't... flying... I wanted... please...._ Brushing his teeth the stranger in the mirror looked at him compassionately. He didn't even need to say anything. Before he collapsed into bed, he booked another ticket. There would be only one reason he'd need it.


	4. Chapter 4

Carolyn looked at Douglas hopelessly. Douglas tried to look supremely unbothered. Arthur looked like he might be about to cry. Martin didn't look like anything at all.

"That's it," Carolyn said, finally, heavily. "MJN Air is done."

Arthur didn't cry, but he held his chin up in a way that reminded Martin of when he was a kid and big boys didn't cry because they cut their knee. There was white noise behind his eyes. He barely felt Douglas' hand on his shoulder, or saw Arthur's seriously wibbly smile. He wrapped his arms mechanically around Carolyn when she hugged him.

Martin parked his van outside the flat and went inside. The white noise was in his ears and nose now. His whole head felt out of focus. He took down his ticket, that magic ticket that waited patiently. He read it, and despite the snow across his vision, it was perfectly in focus, sharp and clear. It said everything it needed to, and that was good. He wasn't sure it would work without the right words. He did add one thing to the front. Three names.

Sitting at his desk, the one he still had to hold up with his knees, Martin carefully laid out his ticket, as though waiting for a conductor, and left.


	5. Epilogue

Carolyn, Arthur and Douglas stood together in the cold morning air.

"His brother gave me this." Carolyn held the piece of paper in a black-gloved hand, her other currently wrapped round her son's shoulders. Arthur blew his nose, noisily.

"What is it?" he asked, soggily.

"It's a note... From Martin."

Arthur had nothing to say to that. Douglas looked uncomfortable, as Englishmen often do at strong emotion. Carolyn, dry-eyed and stony-faced, opened it up. They all read it, each silent, standing in the damp grass. Arthur scrubbed at his face like a child, weeping silently. Carolyn sniffed, and Douglas lay a hand on her shoulder. They stood like that, over Martin's escape ticket, for a long time.


End file.
